


The best part of my night

by redtoes



Series: Good, better, best [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Smut, Sex, Smut, five things, smutty fluff, very shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Felicity and Oliver spent the night together. Sequel to The best part of my day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fantasies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Abbie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbie/gifts), [baybelletrist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/baybelletrist/gifts).



> I own nothing, and while this is specifically for Abbie and baybelletrist who encouraged my thoughts for a smutty sequel, this is really for everyone who commented on The Best Part of my Day. Thank you for your comments, they were lovely to read.

"When you told me," Oliver says out of the blue one evening when they're watching old movies on her couch, "about that guy at your office and how he was looking at you, I wanted to kill him."

"I know," she says. She's leaning with her back against his chest so she can't see his face but he has an arm wrapped around her like he won't ever let her go and she likes that. "It was kinda obvious. I couldn't quite figure out why you had such a strong reaction at the time. It didn't fit."

"All your fault," he says as he idly runs his fingertips up and down her arm. "You told me how you were crawling around under his desk and then he looked at you and you knew what he was thinking. And all I could picture was you on your knees under a desk. My desk."

"Oliver!" She twists to look at him, somewhat scandalised. He smiles wistfully.

"Do you even," he goes on, ignoring her outburst, "remember what you were wearing that day?"

She shakes her head, amused that this one moment appears to be so seared in his memory.

"It was this cardigan and skirt," he says, "and these little boots. It was nothing that I hadn't seen you wearing before but for a week after you told me about it you were in my head every night in that outfit."

"Really?"

"Yes," he admits, "in like the worst kind of Penthouse Letter type scenarios. I kept thinking you would look at me like you talked about looking at your creepy colleague and just know," he sighs, "it was killing me. Seriously."

She laughs, delighted. She leans in to peck a kiss to his nose.

"I never knew," she says. "I thought that you saw me like Thea, all elder brotherly and protective."

"I have always wanted to protect you," he admits, "but it was never brotherly."

Felicity feels her cheeks flush, but then who wouldn't blush when Oliver Queen is looking at them like that? His eyes are dark, the pupils large. She knows enough about basic physiology to know what that means.

He runs a hand up her arm, along her shoulder to the back of her neck, then tugs her in close for a kiss. She likes that he does this, despite the change in their relationship she's still somewhat flustered around him and these moments where he takes charge cut through her nervousness.

She groans and lets him pull her into his lap. It's a little awkward as a seating arrangement with her legs sprawled across the sofa but right now she's more concerned about not breaking away from this kiss. His kiss.

She brings one hand up to stroke his cheek, her fingernails catching in his ever-present stubble. He gasps against her lips and she grins.

"Like that?"

"Do it again" he says.

She lifts both her hands to run her nails through his cropped short hair, her thumbs tickling the stubble on his cheeks. He reacts like a cat; eyes closing, neck arching. She would swear he's about to purr.

She takes advantage of his bared neck, leaning in to lick and suck just below his jaw.

"Felicity."

She grins against his skin, moving her mouth up to his ear to nip at the lobe.

"I love it when you say my name like that," she whispers.

"Felicity," he says immediately, "Felicity, Felicity, Felicity."

She drops her right hand down, letting it run down to the hem of his shirt. Then she slips in, under the material, her fingertips stroking his abs. The muscles twitch under her touch, and he groans.

She feels suddenly incredibly confident. Confident enough to have some fun with him.

"So what was I doing," she asks softly, "in your head?"

He groans again.

"You can tell me," she says, "I won't be mad."

His eyes open long enough to fix her with a look.

"Seriously," she says, letting the coquettish tone drop out of her voice. "You thought about me? Well I thought about you. A lot. I'll swap you a fantasy for a fantasy."

"Alright," he says.

"But you're going first," she adds quickly. She's not sure how long this new take-charge mood will last and she doesn't want to blow it by pushing herself too far too fast.

His eyes twinkle and she loves how pleased he seems to be with her suggestion. Oliver Queen was a fantastical figure to her long before he walked into her office. Always in the news, on the gossip sites, living the kind of life normal people can only aspire to. She likes this real Oliver a lot more than the one she read about as a teenager, but she can't admit she's not intimidated by his past sometimes.

The funny thing is, it's not the five years on the island that give her pause now - more the fact that there are verified photos of him kissing supermodels on Google image search. She has to step up her game if she's going to compete with that.

"Okay," he says. His hands grasp her by the hips and he lifts her up oh so easily, giving her the space to rearrange her legs so she's straddling him. She's not wearing a skirt tonight, which she kind of now regrets. Sweat pants and a tank top don't have the same aesthetic appeal.

But Oliver doesn't seem to mind.

He keeps his hands on her hips, his right thumb having slipped under the material of her tank top to rub lazy circles on her skin. Her hands rest on his shoulders. Impulsively she slips one up to scratch him behind the ear.

He reacts just as she expected.

"You're such a cat," she smiles.

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

"I do," she says, nodding. "I really do."

"Okay," he says, "we'll we'd be in the club basement, just the two of us, Diggle is off somewhere."

"Okay," she nods, "I can see that."

"You're working at your desk."

"I'm glad you've finally acknowledged that it's my desk."

"Shush," he says, raising one hand to press a finger against her lips. Felicity subsides, but he doesn't remove the finger and keeps his eyes fixed on hers. She feels a little on display, can't help but squirm a little. "Stop that," he orders, and she does. Immediately.

"Ah," he says, smugly, "is that one of your fantasies then? Me telling you what to do?"

Felicity doesn't say anything, but she bites her lip and his expression says he doesn't really need her to answer.

"Interesting."

Felicity drops her gaze, looking down at his chest, a little embarrassed at being so easy to read.

"No," he says, and his hand moves to her chin, tipping her head up, making her look at him. "This is your idea. If you want to hear it, I want to see you listen."

She feels her cheeks flush, but she nods.

"Something goes wrong," he says, "with the computer. And you have to go down under the desk to fix it. But you also need to know what's on the screen so you call me over to sit in the chair and tell you what it says."

She stares into his eyes, his words spinning into images inside her head. Her under the desk, him in the chair. Forced proximity to each other. If this had ever happened in real life, she would have been entirely unable to keep her cool.

Kind of like now actually. He's not even touching her, not really, but she can feel her heart rate speeding up, her breathing grow more ragged.

"Details get a bit fuzzy there," he says, "generally there's not much blood going spare to power my imagination." His hand on her hip pushes at her, and she takes the hint and grinds herself against his lap, against the hardness she can feel even through the layers of his jeans and her sweat pants.

"But either, something goes right," he says, watching as she bites down on her lip, her hips still moving, rubbing herself against him. "Or something goes wrong, and you try and come back up, but I'm in the way, in the chair, and you end up pressed against me.

"And you look up at me," he says, "with those big eyes of yours and you smile and you start to unbutton my pants."

"I make the first move?" she says, surprised.

"It's my fantasy," he points out, "and I think, now, you owe me something for not staying quiet." He pauses, considering. "Take your shirt off."

She blinks at him, quizzically and he grins. "Take it off Felicity, that's an order."

A luxurious shiver runs through her, and she keeps her eyes fixed on his and she drops both hands to the hem of her tank top and lifts it off over her head.

"Beautiful," he says, gazing up at her and her bra. "You really are so beautiful."

Felicity is not used to compliments like this, moments like this. She's a grown women but suddenly she's a nervous teenager again. Almost involuntarily, her heads move towards her chest, intending to cover herself.

"No," Oliver says, his hands coming up to capture her wrists. He sits up higher and presses his lips to hers. "You are beautiful," he repeats. "I want to see you."

He smiles at her and after a second's pause she nods.

"Now," he says, "take off my shirt."

Felicity raises an eyebrow but as she never has any objection to seeing Oliver without a shirt she moves swiftly to obey. She grabs the thick material of his two shirts - and why does he alway wear two, its warm enough in here for her to wear barely anything? - and pulls both of them up over his head before he can tell her she was only meant to remove one.

He shifts himself forward so the material doesn't get caught between his back and the couch cushions, and takes advantage of the fact that her arms are up in the air holding the removed shirt high, to wrap his arms around her torso and bury his face in her chest.

He squeezes her tight for a few seconds, then moves his mouth to kiss along the curve of her breast, one hand coming up to rub at her nipple through the lace cup of her bra. He keeps the other hand flat on her back, using it to hold her in place.

"Oliver?" She queries. The way he's wrapped around her now means she can't really drop her arms. She holds onto his removed shirt(s), caught between the awkwardness of how she's sitting and the delicious sensations of his mouth on her skin.

"Drop the shirt," he orders, "but keep your hands up. I'll tell you when you can bring them down."

She does as she's told, enjoying the pleasurable shivers that his voice sends through her body. She's never really done this before - she's had sex, obviously. And there have been boyfriends and one night stands, and experimental moments - but there's something about Oliver that brings all of her most hidden fantasies out if her. It's not like she's got a submissive personality, had never fantasised about being told what to do until she met him.

It's just one more part of the Oliver Queen mystery.

She twines her hands together in the air, stretching up. His fingers are spread wide on the skin of her back, as if he's trying to touch as much of her as he can with only one hand. His mouth moves along her skin, kissing the flesh of her left breast, then dropping down to suck at the nipple. She moans and he sucks harder.

She tries to grind herself against him, but the twin holds of his hand on her back and his mouth on her chest keep her still. Exactly where he wants her.

"Stay still," he whispers, his breath tickling her skin.

She can't see his face from here, but she's pretty sure he's grinning. No doubt delighted at the effect he has on her. His mouth feels smug against her skin, especially when he bites down softly on her nipple and she groans.

He leans back to look at her, and yes, she was right, he's wearing his smuggest grin.

He quirks an eyebrow, then leans even further back, resting against the couch cushions.

She wonders what she looks like, straddling him, breathless and aroused, her arms stretched over her head as if she's tied that way.

A pleasurable throb goes through her body at that thought, but that's something for another night.

"Where was I?" He says, grinning up at her. "In the story, where was I?"

"Oh," she says, and has to cast her mind back, "you were, er, I mean, I was unbuttoning your pants."

"Yes," he agrees, "I was sitting at the desk, you were on your knees and you didn't say anything, just unbuttoned my pants and took me in your mouth."

Yet again his voice has just as much of an effect on her as his touch does. She shivers, then says:

"Would you like me to do that? Now I mean?"

"I'd like you to take your bra off," he says, "and ask me properly."

She drops her hands down and undoes the fastening of her bra, letting the lacy material fall away from her. He picks it up and tosses it to a side.

"Do you want me," she says, trying to figure out what 'properly' is in this context, "want me on my knees? Do you want...my mouth on your cock?"

"Yes," he says, "but not yet."

"Oh." She's confused and it must show in her face.

"Stand up," he says, and she does so, scrambling backwards off of him a little awkwardly. "Stay still," he orders, shifting himself forward so he's sitting on the very edge of the couch.

She stays still and his hands come up to her hips and push the sweat pants and panties down her legs, so she's standing there naked in front of him.

"You're beautiful Felicity," he says, his voice tense, "you're amazing. Now. Stay still."

He slips off of the couch, going to his knees in front of her and presses his mouth to the curve of her belly, kissing and nipping at the soft flesh there. His hands run up the outside of her legs, brushing over her skin. She gasps, and wobbles, his mouth on her skin is already upsetting her balance.

He looks up at her, meets her eyes and grins.

"Put your hands on my shoulders," he says, "I won't let you fall."

She does so, wondering how it is she knew this was a suggestion, an offer, not an order. But she doesn't have much time to think about it because Oliver pushes her legs apart with his hands and presses his mouth to her clit.

Her head falls back and her hands spasm on his shoulders, fingers digging in to the muscles there. He chuckles and she feels the vibration of it across the most intimate parts of her. She moans and he laughs.

"I love that I have this effect on you," he says, one of his hands moving from her hips to slip between her legs. Her thigh muscles spasm pleasurably, but his hands are stronger and he's slips two fingers inside her, forcing her to ride his hand as he licks and sucks at her clit.

Her legs are weak, but Oliver won't let her fall. He promised.

She forgets where she is, who she is, why she is - her entire world comes down to his mouth and fingers, moving inside her. Pleasure soars through her body and pressure builds.

He adds another finger, pushing at her and she's moaning, groaning, panting.

"Oliver," she begs, "please."

She doesn't know how much more of this she can take. The strength in her legs is nearly gone and she must be leaving nail marks in his shoulders from her grip.

"Please Oliver," she repeats, "I want, I need -"

He pulls back, looking up at her. Her body mourns the loss of his mouth even as she feels even closer to the edge at the look in his eye.

"Say it," he says, "ask me. Beg me."

And the words tumble out of her.

"Oliver! Please make me come, please, I need you, I want you to make me come, please!"

"Happy to," he says, and his mouth comes down hard on her clit as his fingers thrust up into her, and she sees stars.

She sags, her knees going out, but he catches her, lowers her down gently.

It takes her a few minutes to come back to herself and when she does she finds she's lying on the couch, sprawled among the cushions. He's kissing her stomach, idly, one arm thrown out around her possessively.

She blinks and he grins at her.

"That was..."

"Amazing?" He suggests, "mind-blowing? Remarkable."

"All of the above," she agrees. "Was that your fantasy or mine?"

"A bit of both," he smiles, "I think you're my fantasy. Just you."

She lifts herself up on her elbows and he moves up her body to kiss her, the weight of him pressing her back into the cushions.

She kisses him, tasting herself on his lips and suddenly she remembers that they're not done yet.

"In the basement," she says, "in your fantasy, what am I wearing?"

"It's not important," he says, running his hands over her skin.

"It's not?" She teases, "but you said you thought about it every night for a week. You must remember."

"Your pink cardigan," he says immediately, "those little brown boots of yours. The blue skirt and a white tank."

"Good memory."

"Every night for a week," he groans, "remember?"

"What happens after?" She asks. "After I unbutton your jeans and start to suck your cock?" She's not generally one for dirty talk, or at least she never has been before this evening, but she can tell he has a thing for it. "What happens after you come in my mouth?" His hands tighten on her skin at the words but she won't be distracted.

"Felicity," Oliver groans, "why does it matter?"

He drops his head to her neck and starts to kiss her. She pulls his head back up with her hands, wanting to looks him in the eye.

"Because you didn't get your fantasy."

"I've got you."

"Just tell me," she says, "I told you."

"You didn't actually," he points out.

"Whatever," she says, "tell me."

He looks at her, licks his lips. He seems almost embarrassed.

"Fine," he says, "in the fantasy you don't say anything, you just go down on me, at the desk, make me come then go back to fixing the computer. I'm left there, blown away and you go on with your day like its something you do all the time."

"Okay," she says, and pushes at his shoulder.

He sits back obediently, but his expression is confused, maybe even a little hurt.

"Wait here," she says, "I have to do something."

She's off the couch before he can say anything, though a plaintive "Felicity?" follows her as she walks to her bedroom. It doesn't take her long to find what she is looking for, the outfit he described is one of her favorites - his too apparently. She likes the idea that every time he'll see her in it in the future he'll think of this.

She takes a moment to run a brush through her hair, tidy up her ponytail from home-lounging-on-the-couch standards to the neat version she wears at work. She applies a coat of the lipstick she tends to wear with this outfit, then checks herself in the mirror.

Something's missing.

What else does she usually carry with her when she spends time in the basement?

Her tablet.

She retrieves the Surface from a nearby tabletop, amused by the fact that she's about to use it as a prop in a sex game. She bets that's something the QC IT suppliers never thought about when they bought them in in bulk. Still it's not like her current tablet has anything other than a superficial resemblance to the one handed to her by work. She stripped it down and rewrote the OS for her own purposes long ago.

"Felicity?" Oliver calls from the living room. He sounds worried. "It's only a silly fantasy, I'm sorry if it upset you."

"Not at all," she says walking back in, dressed in the exact outfit that he described, pretending to read her tablet. "Now which computer was it you were having trouble with?"

He stares at her as she crosses to the couch, drops her tablet on a nearby table and goes to her knees in front of him.

"Felicity," he says, sounding absolutely stunned.

"Okay Oliver," she says, trying to keep her voice professional and not show how turned on she is. She reaches for the buttons of his jeans, keeping her eyes locked on his. "Tell me when the screen says 100%."

And she lowers her mouth to his crotch. 


	2. Family dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not smut. Sorry.

Officially, no one knows. But all the same, Oliver is fully aware that Diggle sees all and knows all and his new relationship with Felicity is not an exception to this rule.

The morning after he interrupted her date plans, Diggle just looked at him when he arrived at the club. Oliver is mostly sure that Diggle didn’t know - at least not then, but the man has always had scary perception skills. And Felicity’s adorably flustered behavior around him when she arrived later that day would have enough to tip off a blind man, never mind eagle-eyed John Diggle.

But he didn’t say anything, just stepped up Felicity’s self-defence training and kept his sardonically smug expressions for Oliver’s eyes alone.

It’s possible that he told Carly - in fact, it’s likely that he told Carly. But Carly is far too classy to ever let anything slip while she knows they’re keeping things quiet, so apart from Diggle’s continuing commentary of eyebrows, things continue pretty much as they always have for a while.

Oliver doesn’t have much of a social life anymore - the nightly walk-arounds he conducts on the club floor aside. With Tommy dead and Laurel having gone to stay with her mother - not that he was really seeing Laurel socially, the look in her eyes at Tommy’s funeral had put the nails in the coffin of their relationship long before he’d finally kissed Felicity - Oliver was left in the strange situation of having no friends. Or at least, no public friends.

“So who is she?” Thea asks, one morning over brunch.

“Who’s who?” Oliver says buttering toast. He’d rather be having brunch with Diggle and Felicity at Carly’s diner but Thea had insisted, saying that she hadn’t seen him in ages, and as he was officially her guardian while their mother languished in jail awaiting trial without bail, they should at least try and spend some time together.

“Whoever the girl is?”

“There’s no girl,” Oliver says.

“There’s a girl,” Thea scoffs.

“There’s no girl,” he insists.

“There’s a girl. There has to be a girl.”

Oliver sighs at the fact that she’s obviously not going to let this go.

“What makes you think,” he asks as pleasantly and neutrally as he can, “that there’s a girl?”

“One,” Thea says, counting on her fingers, “you’re out all night.”

“I run a night club,” Oliver says, “next.”

“Two,” she says, “I’ve been to that club and you’re never there. So the club is not the reason you’re out all night.”

“I’m not always on the floor,” Oliver says, “there’s a lot of stuff to do in the office.”

Thea snorts.

“Three,” says says, “you’re happy.”

Oliver blinks. Is he?

“I’m not,” he says, but the denial sounds false even to him.

“You are you know,” Thea says, “you don’t get like this very often. You keep smiling to yourself when you think no one is watching.”

“I don’t.”

“You do Ollie,” she says, “so whoever this is, and don’t say there isn’t anyone because we both know better than that, I’d kinda like to meet her. Seeing as she’s in the running to become my new step-mother and all.”

“Thea!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thea says, “Mom will come home soon. We’ll all be a family again. Well, while I wait for our mother to be cleared of mass-murder charges I’m going to live my life. And so should you. And so I want to meet her, this girl who makes you smile.”

“Thea-”

“Don’t argue,” she says, “just set it up. Dinner, somewhere.”

“There’s really no girl,” he insists.

“Yeah,” Thea laughs, “sure there is.”

Felicity also laughs when he tells her about it later that day.

“It’s not funny,” he says, “She won’t listen to me.”

“Of course not,” Felicity laughs, “she’s a teenage girl. They don’t listen. I never did. And I wasn’t even an extreme member of the breed. Thea’s not going to back down. She thinks you have a secret and she wants to know it.”

Oliver frowns. He’s really not sure how to deal with this. Thea may be young but even when she was small she wasn’t easily dissuaded when she wanted to know something. It’s not a surprise that it took a brush with death (and prison) to get her off the drugs - nothing less than that would have made much of an impact.

“It’s okay,” Felicity says, “I don’t need to meet her. I get that you want to keep this between us.” She puts a hand on his arm, “It makes it special,” she says, trying for a reassuring smile, “that no one knows but us.”

“Diggle knows,” Oliver says, without thinking. He’s too concerned about Thea to notice Felicity’s reaction.

“John knows!”

“Yeah,” Oliver says, “do you think I could distract Thea -

“Sorry,” she interrupts, “panic now, plan later. How does John know? Did you tell him?”

“He just knows,” Oliver says, shrugging.

“Oliver,” Felicity says, stepping in close to him and reaching a hand up to cup his cheek. “Focus on me. How does John know about our super secret relationship that you said you weren’t going to tell anyone about?”

“He’s Diggle,” Oliver says, finally turning his attention to her and realising she’s really quite upset. “The morning after, well the morning after you didn’t go on that date, he just looked at me. I didn’t say anything, but then you turned up and…” he throws his hands up, “apparently the man reads body language like he’s psychic.”

“Oh my god,” Felicity says quietly, half to herself, “I thought he was being funny.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she says quickly, “are you okay, do you mind? That he knows I mean?”

“It’s Diggle,” Oliver shrugs, “I never had any hope of keeping this from Diggle.”

Felicity nods but she’s not meeting his eye. Abruptly, it dawns on Oliver that she might not have quite the same view of the situation that he does.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he says. “There’s too many people - in both sides of my life - that could hurt you, and I don’t want that.”

Felicity nods again.

“I need to go check on the server,” she says, slipping away from him.

“Felicity,” he says, but she’s already gone.

“Man,” Diggle says, appearing from behind the nearby shelves, “you want to know what my psychic senses are telling me?”

“That eavesdropping is rude?”

“That you need to tell that girl why you haven’t told anyone about her.”

“Dig,” Oliver says, exasperated, “I’ve got enemies.”

“Never stopped you with McKenna,” Diggle points out reasonably, “never stopped you with Laurel.”

“McKenna got shot,” Oliver says, “and Laurel almost died.”

“And neither of those things happened because they were dating you.”

“They happened because of me.”

“Give it a rest Oliver,” Diggle says, “McKenna was a cop - she knew the risks and she went after a criminal. That was nothing to do with you. And without you, the entire roof of CNRI would have come down on Laurel because both devices would have gone off and she then would really be dead.”

“Or she would have been outside of the Glades and still with Tommy.”

“Or she might have been hit by a bus. You’re talking hypotheticals man, not facts.”

“Diggle-”

“There’s no such thing as certainty, Oliver,” Diggle says. “Believe me I know. And I’m not saying you should take out an ad in the Post, just introduce her to your sister. Somewhere low-key.”

“Dig-”

“You only just manned up enough to find her,” Diggle says, not unkindly. “Don’t lose her over some small bullshit thing. Own it.”

Oliver glares at him, but Diggle just grins, holding up his hands to show the lecture is finished.

“You know there the server is, right?”

“I know where the server is,” Oliver confirms, but he doesn’t go looking for Felicity right away.

He said to her, that first night, lying in her bed, with the discarded remnants of both their clothes around them, that he cared about her. That he couldn’t lose her. He thought she understood what he meant, but maybe he was falling into the same trap he’d been ever since he came back from the island - assuming that everyone could read him as well as he could read them.

It was one of the reasons why he knew he could trust Diggle from the start.

Why he’d felt able to bring Felicity in.

Thea is smart, but she’s hurting. She’s refused to visit their mother in jail and has been spending far more time with Roy than Oliver would like. Still, given his past, he can’t point too many fingers at her dating life; even if he feels he’s doing better now with Felicity, he still has Helena in his somewhat recent past.

Not to mention the clusterfuck of years on-again/off-again with Laurel.

Sighing he reaches for his phone. He won’t arrange anything out, but dinner at house should appease Thea. And it has the bonus impact that he can ask Felicity to stay; spend a night somewhere other than her place. That should go some way to reassuring her he’s serious.

 

*****

 

“Are you sure I look okay?” Felicity asks him for the fourth time.

“My answer’s not changing,” he says as he turns the car into the long and winding path than is the Queen mansion front drive.

“I could go home and change,” she says.

“No you couldn’t,” he replies, “we’re here.”

“I’ve seen pictures of your sister,” she says. “She looks very fashionable.”

“You’ve met her before,” he remind hers, “Walter’s hospital room?”

“That wasn’t a meeting,” she says, “I dropped off flowers.”

“I introduced you.”

“She’s not going to remember me,” Felicity insists.

“Then you have an absolutely clean slate,” Oliver says, “look, here we are.”

It’s a lovely evening; pleasant and warm. The setting sun lends the manor a golden tinge, the windows reflecting the orange red of the sky.

“You have a beautiful home,” Felicity says, staring.

“It’s just a house,” Oliver replies. “Home is all about people.”

She gives him an odd look but before she can say anything Thea is there, stepping down off of the steps to walk across the gravel.

“I knew there was a girl,” she yells at Oliver and he thinks fondly of the days when she used to follow him around like a mini-me, and this kind of smug bravado wasn’t part of her personality.

“Must be a family trait,” Felicity mumbles under her breath.

Oliver looks at her askance but Felicity doesn’t acknowledge him, stepping forward instead to take Thea’s hand.

“You must be Thea,” she say, “I’m Felicity.”

“I know you,” Thea says, tilting her head quizzically, “don’t I?”

“I told you she’d remember,” Oliver says. “Thea, you met Felicity the day we got Walter back. She brought flowers.”

“They were lovely,” Thea says, “it was really nice of you to bring them.”

“I worked with Walter,” Felicity says, “I worried about him.”

“Worried?” Thea says, her brow creasing, “What do you mean?”

“She means,” Oliver says, stepping in to put an arm around each of them, “that she’s a worrier. She keeps telling me all the late nights at the club are bad for me.”

“I do,” Felicity agrees immediately, “and that loud music, you could go deaf.”

Thea looks at Oliver, incredulously.

“She worries,” Oliver says, walking them up the steps into the house. “I think it’s cute.”

Thea doesn’t say anything, but her expressions speaks volumes. On Oliver’s other side Felicity fidgets, fully aware of how close she came to giving away a secret. Oliver makes sure he’s wearing his best ‘Oliver Queen: Charming Playboy’ expression and guides them both into the house.

“Wow,” Felicity says, “Seriously you live here. This isn’t a movie set or a fake front room you use to confuse burglars.”

“No,” Thea says, “this the real house.”

She gives Oliver a look of ‘where did you find this girl.’ Oliver ignores it.

“I could give you a tour,” he says to Felicity. “We could give you a tour.”

“Sure,” Thea says, “want to see where Ollie set the drapes on fire when he was nine?”

Felicity grins.

“Yes please,” she says, “but surely?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t born yet,” Thea says in a confidential tone, “but I have it on good authority that Ollie wasn’t especially happy about the new arrival.”

“Lies, all lies,” Oliver says, “those drapes were hideous. They needed to be dealt with.”

Thea slips her arm through Felicity’s and pulls her ahead of him.

“See that’s what he says,” Thea says, looking back over her shoulder and grinning at him. “But I’ve been told that Ollie used to get bored a lot when he was little.”

“I’m so not surprised,” Felicity says. She glances over her shoulder at Oliver, questioningly, but he waves her on to go with Thea.

He walks down the hall at a sedate pace, watching his sister lead Felicity through their home. He catches the odd snippet of conversation, only interjecting when he absolutely must.

“This is where Ollie and Tommy purposely spilt kool-aid on Mom’s white rug.”

“That was entirely Tommy. And it was an accident.”

“That’s funny - when I asked him, he said it was all you.”

He can see Thea warming to Felicity, even though Felicity’s nervous tendency to ramble is in full force today. He grins when she manages to reference three different computer systems in three minutes, smiles when she tells Thea how much nicer she thinks Oliver is in person than what she might have thought from what she read on gossip sites.

“Gossip sites,” Thea sneers, “they never get anything right. Did you know,” she says turning to Oliver, “that apparently I’m pregnant with Walter’s baby, according to some bastard on the internet?”

“What?” Felicity says, utterly shocked. “Who?”

“Apparently it’s why Walter left,” Thea’s lip curls.

“Tell me who wrote that,” Felicity says, very seriously, “I’ll make sure they never get onto an airplane without a cavity search ever again.”

Thea stares at her, the turns her gaze to Oliver.

“She’s not lying,” Oliver says, “She’s really very talented. Remarkable even.”

“What is it you do again?” Thea asks Felicity..

“I work in IT,” Felicity says, “but sometimes I’m Batman. At least, virtually.”

Thea grins.

“I like her Oliver,” she says, “why didn’t you bring her home sooner?”

“I didn’t know you needed anyone to commit cyber-terrorism.”

“Terrorism is such an ugly word,” Felicity quips, “I prefer vigilantism.”

“Well you’re in the right city for it,” Thea says with a grin, “you want a drink?”

Oliver pours champagne. He thinks about not offering any to Thea but he was drinking at her age, and they’re in the house. What harm could one glass do her?

“Cheers,” Thea says, clinking glasses with them both.

“Cheers,” Felicity echoes.

Oliver just drinks.

He doesn’t drink much anymore, but this evening, the meeting and bonding of the two most important women left in his life - this feels like a time to drink.

“So you went to SCU?” Thea asks Felicity once dinner and dessert are done. It was a lovely meal, Oliver admits, but he can’t quite remember what he ate, so intent was he on keeping conversation light and away from his nocturnal activities.

“2004 to 2007,” Felicity says.

“I thought their degree was a four year course?” Thea says.

“I finished early,” Felicity says. “My father was ill.”

“I’m sorry,” Thea says, glancing at Oliver.

“Me too,” Oliver adds, “I didn’t know.”

“I don’t talk about it,” Felicity says, “so how ‘bout them… generic sports team which I do not follow and know nothing about?”

Thea laughs.

“I should introduce you to Roy,” she says, “I think he has all of Starling City’s sports stats memorised.”

“Which team?” Felicity asks.

“All of them,” Thea shrugs.

Oliver glares at her, but Thea ignores him.

“So where are you applying for college,” Felicity asks.

“SCU,” Thea says, “Columbia, Stamford, Brown. But I don’t know, I think I’d like to stay close to home.”

“Thea -” Oliver warns.

“What?” She says, “Family is important. You went to SCU. So did Dad. I could go there.”

“SCU is a good school,” Felicity says.

“Don’t make a decision about the rest of your life,” Oliver says, “over a boy.”

Thea raises an eyebrow.

“Given your history,” she says, “I don’t think you get to tell me where to go to college.”

Oliver snorts.

“No,” he says, “but I’m not the shining example you should follow. Be like Laurel, do better than me?”

“Like Felicity?” Thea asks, a picture of innocence.

“Like Felicity,” he confirms.

Then he pours another round of champagne.

“I like your sister,” Felicity says, when the dinner is long done, and they’re sitting by the fire in the main den. He’s always loved this room - his father taught him to play chess here. He used to work on homework at this table while his Dad talked business on that phone over there.

“She’s growing up too quickly,” he says. He set a fire in the grate and now he’s watching the flames. Felicity shifts along on the sofa, presses herself up against him, puts her head on his shoulder.

“That’s kids today. Everyone grows up fast.”

“Thea’s been through a lot,” he says, “Dad’s death, my ‘death’, Walter’s disappearance. My mother is in prison, right now, and Thea won’t go to see her.”

“She seems okay,” Felicity says, “I mean, I don’t know her, but she seems okay. And she has your number.”

“She always did.”

He lifts an arm up, wraps it around her.

“Thank you,” he says, “for coming here tonight.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

He watches the flames. Thinks about how much everyone takes fire and heat for granted here. Remembers his disastrous first attempt to light a fire on the island.

Felicity snuggles into him.

“This is nice,” she says.

“Yeah.”

He glances down at her, curled in beside him so easily, like she was always meant to fit there.

“I didn’t tell anyone about you,” he says, “because I wanted to keep you safe.”

“I understand,” she says, but her tone is flat.

“No,” he replies, “you don’t. I never expected you. I have no idea how I found you. And I can’t lose you.”

“You didn’t worry about McKenna.”

“I didn’t feel this way about McKenna.”

“Oh.” She shifts in his arms, turning to look up at him. “I’d like the rest of the tour now.”

“The tour?”

“You didn’t show me your room.”

He grins.

“I can do that,” he says, “come with me.”


	3. Early hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this chapter the contraception conversation happened off screen and they're covered. No accidental babies or irresponsible behaviour here.

She wakes up in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar bed.

It's Oliver's fault her rhythms are all out of sync. She's gotten used to his 'work all night in the club basement' life, and has trained herself to rely on the 4 hours of sleep she can usually snatch between 3 and 7 am.

Before she gets up and does it all over again

But tomorrow, or rather, today as when she checks the clock she sees 4.12 flashing back at her, is a Saturday.

Last night she had dinner with him and his sister. Last night she slept in his bed. She's still in his bed now, even if she's not sleeping.

She'd been too tired to do anything more than snuggle up against him and snore last night, but now she's wide awake at 4 in the morning and she knows exactly who is to blame for that.

Oliver warned her, when he started to spend nights in her apartment, that she should never try to wake him from a nightmare by touching him.

"How about a cold washcloth?" She had asked, "or a bucket of water?"

"I'd prefer the washcloth," he says, "I've done the bucket thing and it's not as much fun as you might think."

Then he distracted her with a foot massage that had her moaning for more. Then there was more.

Felicity smiles at the memory. She looks over at Oliver, asleep beside her. In sleep his face is relaxed. There none of the animation; the righteous anger or determination that's there when he's conscious. He looks young. Vulnerable.

He still hasn't told her much about the island. About how he got his scars.

She's caught between not wanting to know the details of his nightmare and not wanting him to suffer through it alone. She's sure he'll tell her what she needs to know. Eventually.

She very badly wants to get up and search the room for incriminating evidence that she can tease him about with John later but she knows from experience that any attempt she makes at stealth will rouse him from sleep faster than a cold washcloth ever could.

It's strange that he can sleep through noise - the hustle and bustle of her running around to try and make her 8.30 start - but the second she tip toes he's on full alert. Or maybe it's not strange. It's just another one of those things five years on a island does to you.

But she has learned another way of waking him.

Felicity smiles to herself and slips down the bed, under the sheets. He sleeps naked, which she appreciates, though she prefers to wear something to bed. She hadn't packed a bag when Oliver had invited her to dinner so she had to snag a discarded t shirt off of a chair in his bedroom when it came time to crash out.

It smells a little like him - must and musk. She likes the smell.

She moves down the bed, doing her best not to disturb the covers too much. She likes surprising him and this is one of the few things she knows always does that.

Even unmoving his body is impressive. All bumps and ridges of hard-earned muscle.

She runs her lips over the defined lines of his abdomen, tasting his skin with her tongue. He shifts in his sleep, but there's no other reaction. At least, not an audible one.

She's not sure how his body always knows but by the time her mouth has reached its destination he's already half hard.

She spends a few seconds pressing kisses down the fine trail of hair that links his belly button with his groin.

Then she takes him in her mouth and gently starts to suck.

It doesn't take long for half hard to become fully erect and soon enough she's bobbing her head trying to take as much of him as she can in her mouth. Her hand comes up to stroke his inner thighs. As she scratches her short nails over the sensitive skin there he groans loudly and his hand comes down to rest on the back of her head, not pushing or controlling, just there.

"Felicity," he groans and she smiles around her full mouth. She loves the way he says her name.

She loves the feel of him, hot and heavy in her mouth. She shifts position slightly, using her hands on the shaft of him while she runs her tongue over the hard ridge of skin just below the head of penis.

"Felicity," he says again, and his fingers tighten in her hair. She expects him to push her down, to taste the salt of his release, but instead he pulls her up, both his hands dragging her up the bed to kiss her.

"What time is it?" He says against her lips.

"It's early," she says, "and I'm awake. That's your fault."

"I see," he says, and his hands come up under the t shirt to run over her skin. "And this is my punishment?"

"More my reward," she says, then mock-pouts, "but you didn't let me finish."

Abruptly he strips the shirt off her, then presses her naked body back into the bed, using his weight to hold her in place.

"More than one way for me to reward you," he says, slipping one hand down between her legs. He grins when he finds how wet she is. "Felicity," he growls, "did you touch yourself?"

"No," she says, gasping as he slides first one finger, then another inside her. "The only thing I touched was you."

She arches her back and he dips his head to kiss the valley between her breasts.

"What do you want?" He asks.

"You," she gasps, "I want you."

"How?"

"I don't care," she says, "I just want you. Now."

He grins and rolls them, ending with him on his back and her straddling his hips. She shifts her position slightly, then sinks down on him, feeling his cock push at her internal walls.

She pauses when the skin of her thighs meets his. He's entirely sheathed by her. She feels full. She opens her eyes and sees his eyes intent on her.

"You feel so good," she says, then is immediately mortified by how cheesy she sounds.

"So do you," he says, no trace of any embarrassment in his voice. "You feel amazing."

He lifts one hand and she threads her fingers through his. He tugs her down enough so he can kiss the inside of her wrist, then, as she luxuriates in the feel of him, he thrusts his hips upwards and causes her to moan, throwing her head back.

They settle into a rhythm, moving together. He seems to have a game he plays during sex - how many different sounds can he make her emit? He gets very competitive about it.

He gets the usual moans and groans from his thrusts, gasps as he brushes her clit, soft mewls when he kisses and sucks her fingers. He's apparently determined to hear the full range of her tonight, because he sits up, runs his hands over her hips and teasing her clit with one thumb, starts to play with her ass with the other.

She bites her lip and he notices.

"Something wrong?"

"I've never," she says, breathlessly, "I've never done that." It's not that she doesn't want to - she wants to do everything on earth with him, for him, to him. But she's nervous.

"Ah," he grins, "something for later."

She smiles but she knows he can see that she is a little uncertain.

"Only if you want to," he clarifies, "and only after everything else."

"Everything else?"

He grins again and flips them, lifting her as if she was as light as air. She's not, she checked, so the way he can pick her up as if she's weightless is always a turn on.

He lays her down in his bed, moves his body over hers and thrusts in to her. She arches up into him and his grin turns lupine.

"Do you still," he whispers in her ear, "think about me telling you what to do?"

She moans in response, words having deserted her entirely.

He thrust deep inside her, then pauses. His hands run down over her arms and lock around her wrists.

"How about me," he says, "holding you down?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, just lifts her wrists up, over her head, pinning them in place with one hand.

Felicity squirms. Oliver runs his free hand down her chest and flicks at her nipples. She moans, writhing under him. His hand moves lower, rubbing around and above her clit.

"I've got you now," he says, "in my bed. In my house. I can do anything I want to you." He rolls his hips to prove the point, causing her to gasp. "My Felicity."

"Oliver," she gasps, and he presses this thumb down on her clit and she comes, screaming.

She opens her eyes to find him grinning at her. He lets go of her wrists and she brings her hands up to stroke his face. She wraps her legs around his hips and he lifts her up again - again! - and shifts their position so he's kneeling on the bed, her legs wrapped around his waist, held up only by her shaky thigh muscles and his strong hands.

She looks deep into his eyes as he thrusts up into her.

This could be one of those moments where she says something she shouldn't. She's glowing from her orgasm, buzzing from the pleasurable sensation of his thrusts, and he's right there.

She clamps down on her urge to pull out three little words - he's only just introduced her to his sister for God's sake. This is not the time to be thinking in l-words.

She knows she's about to speak so she drops her mouth to his and kisses him for all she's worth. She would rather have him in her mouth than words that lead to awkwardness.

She can't really do anything in this position other than relax and enjoy the ride so she wraps one arm around his shoulders to hold herself in place - she doesn't think he'll drop her, but there's always a first time - and uses the other to scratch his scalp in the way she know he likes.

He reacts, emitting the groan-growl she thinks of as his purr.

"Felicity."

She grins, then bites down on his shoulder hard, and he grunts, thrusts into her one last time, then sags, spent.

He doesn't drop her.

She can feel him softening inside her, can feel the sticky mess of their emissions between her legs. Can feel the tremor that runs through her own leg muscles, still wrapped around his waist.

He raises his head to look at her, a picture of feline contentment. His eyes are hooded, his mouth loose.

He nuzzles at her cheek then kisses her softly.

"My reward," he says and she grins.

"There's still a lot of time before normal waking hours," he adds, "do you want to go back to sleep?"

"No," she says, "I want to try out that shower of yours. Tell me, have you ever had sex up against the wall of that thing?"

"Yes," he admits, "but it wasn't you so it doesn't count. And it was a very long time ago, so I could do with my memory being refreshed."

"Okay," she says, "do you want to help me get clean before we get all dirty again?"

He grins.

"Definitely."


	4. The photograph

Felicity is a digital girl in a digital world so she has pages of Google news alerts set up to filter information to her. Most of them are for or about Oliver, covering topics and news sites ranging from reviews of Verdant, conspiracy theorist blogs about the identity of the Hood and the occasional bit of TMZ and Gawker speculation about his sex life.

The sex stuff predates their relationship but she never bothered to take it down. It’s hilariously funny when they’re wrong.

After she meets Thea she adds another name to her internet monitoring, then spends a pleasant afternoon destroying the credit rating, SEO rankings and security watch list status of a certain blogger. Just to be complete she perpetrates a DoS attack against the main site. She might be a white-hat hacker but she knows her way around internet revengence.

She has trackers running against her own name too, and the various pseuds she uses on different sites. This kind of data-skimming is mostly leftover from when she spent a lot of time on hacker message boards, and wanted to make sure no one was taking credit for her work.

Her tracking keywords are complex, and she runs each of the alerts through its own Gmail account then via a few anonymising servers before they arrive in her inbox. The problem is that she rarely has time to read them anymore – two jobs, a boyfriend (and how strange is that Oliver is her boyfriend?) and the occasional need to sleep get in the way of much of her non-work related web browsing.

So she doesn’t know about the photograph until it’s already done the rounds at the QC office. She finds it later in one of her update emails but it wasn’t one of the tags she checked regularly – it was one of the fun ones, the Oliver-based gossip ones. It certainly wasn’t tagged against her name – at least, not then.

She arrives in work at 8.29 and mentally congratulates herself for being at her desk when the phone rings at 8.30. She might be a little out of breath from all the running but she’s at her desk, taking calls -that’s what counts.

“QCIT,” she says, putting her ear piece in.

“Fiz,” says Janey, using the middle-school nickname that Felicity has always hated but never managed to entirely eradicate from her friend’s vocabulary. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Like what?” Felicity asks, loading up her system and running her eyes over the inbox. She checked her mail on the tablet in the elevator, but you never know what diatribe of annoyance her supervisor will have pressed send on at 8.30 precisely. The man lives to obfuscate her in the most annoying way possible.

“Like the fact you’re dating Oliver Queen!” Janey’s voice goes up at the end, her excitement meaning she almost screams.

Felicity freezes. Her fingers actually stop moving on the keys, which isn’t something that happens to her very often.

“What?” She can hear the shock in her own voice. “No, of course not, that’s not possible.”

“Fizzy,” Janey says, and Felicity tries hard not the wince at the second, even-more-hated childhood nickname. “I am looking at a picture – right now! – of you and Oliver Queen. Though you’re just credited as a mystery blonde! This is so exciting! I cannot believe you didn’t tell me!” Janey shrieks and Felicity thinks seriously about ear plugs for half a second before sense kicks in and she’s opening up Google to type in “Oliver Queen mystery blonde”. She hits Search, then immediately clicks on the options for Image Search and Last 24 hours to refine it.

And there it is.

She doesn’t remember when this was shot but that is undeniably her, leaving Verdant early one morning with Oliver’s arm around her. She looks exhausted and he looks happy. She’s holding her tablet, pointing out something on the screen and he’s looking at her like she hung the moon and part of Felicity’s brain notes that this is actually a rather nice photo, for all that it was blatantly taken by some creeper with a long lens.

If it wasn’t about to disrupt her life in new and scary ways she might even like it.

Felicity checks the clock on the screen. 8.34. Wow, it only took 4 minutes for this become the worst work day ever.

“I have to go Janey,” she says and hangs up before Janey can say anything.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” she says as she finds her cell phone and scrolls through to Oliver’s contact details. He probably won’t be awake just yet – the habits they’ve fallen into have him sleeping in her bed until close to noon, then going to the club to deal with all the administration his cover story requires.

He gets grumpy when he gets woken up by his cell. And she can’t think of anything to say about this that will likely improve his mood.

Oliver’s cell phone rings and rings then goes to voicemail. Felicity leaves a quick “Call me!” message, then types the same thing in as a text. He might still be asleep. Or in the shower. There is absolutely no need to panic.

She makes it 37 seconds before she calls John.

“Felicity,” he says on the other end of the line, “what’s up?” She hears traffic noise behind him. Perhaps he’s just dropped his nephew off at school.

“I need to speak to Oliver,” she says, “someone took a photo of us, and it’s all over the web. He’s going to freak.”

“On it,” John says instantly. “He’s at yours, right?”

“He’s not answering his phone.” She says, then immediately follows it up with, “I’m not worried, I just, I remember how important it was for him that this was a secret. I mean it’s only on the internet, so it might not be a big deal –“

“Felicity,” John says and her heart sinks at his tone of voice. “I’m at a newsstand, and I’m looking at your face on the cover of a magazine.”

“Oh God,” she says.

“Leave the office,” he says, “go to Verdant. I’ll meet you there with Oliver.”

“I’m at work,” she protests.

“Felicity,” John says, “your overly protective boyfriend who owns the company will forgive you.”

“Right,” she says, “of course.”

“I’ll see you there,” he says and hangs up the phone.

She takes the direct route out of the office, hoping that as it’s so early, none of her colleagues will spot her.

But she’s wrong.

There’s a gaggle of girls in the break room who fall silent as she approaches. The second she’s around the corner the conversation starts up again, as if being out of sight would block their incredulous cries of “Her?” and “I don’t get what he sees in her!”

She tries to block it all out but she feels like she’s flashing back to high school. The cliques of mean girls judging, pointing, laughing. She was always so awkward in high school, though, she thinks, looking down at herself, she’s still pretty awkward now.

Maybe they have a point.

She gets to her car in the basement without any further teenage flashbacks and sighs with relief as she slips into the driver’s seat.

John Diggle is waiting for her outside of the club.

“Thank God,” he says, “did you bring tranqs? Because I think we’re going to need to sedate him.”

“That bad,” she winces.

“Worse.”

“Okay,” she straightens her shoulders and heads towards the basement access. John catches her arm.

“I didn’t think it was a good idea to have him armed,” he says, “he’s in the office.”

“The club office?”

“Yeah.” John shrugs. “I left him there with a bottle of vodka. It’s 6 o’clock somewhere right?”

“Vodka?”

“It was vodka,” John says, “or a blow to the head. I thought you’d like him conscious.”

Felicity nods. It’s amazing how quickly all her fears and worries about herself have completely faded away when faced with Oliver’s anxiety.

“I’ll go,” she says.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he says, “I already disconnected the office land line so you shouldn’t be disturbed.”

Oliver is pacing when she gets there, looking not unlike a jungle cat caught in a cage. He’s incredibly stressed; she can see how tight his movements are, how controlled. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him this angry, even when faced with the betrayal of his own family. The intensity of his reaction scares her a little.

“Oliver,” she greets him and he pauses, freezes in place than takes two large steps across the room to sweep her up in his arms.

“Felicity,” he mumbles, pressing his face into her neck. She wraps her arms around him and holds on. He’s almost vibrating with emotion.

She rubs his shoulders, considers if she should make a soothing noise and just as she’s decided that an “ah” might work here, he pulls back.

His eyes are wet.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m so sorry about this.”

“What?” She replies, trying to keep things light. “It’s just a picture.”

“Pictures.”

“Pictures,” she considers, “how many?”

“Six.”

“What do they show?”

“They’re all of us leaving the club. One is us in a car. All taken in the past month.”

“Someone’s been watching us,” she realises. “Oh Oliver I’m so sorry.”

“This is all my fault,” he says, “I should have known they wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“We knew this would happen eventually,” she tries, but he shakes his head.

“We’re being watched,” he says, “and I didn’t know. What if it had been Deadshot? He could have put a bullet in your brain and we wouldn’t have even known he was there until after you were dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says, “you’re not safe with me. I can’t keep you safe.”

“I’m in your life,” she says, “I’m not leaving. You don’t get to make my decisions for me.”

Oliver glares down at her. She recognises the expression - it’s one of the faces he wears as the Hood - uncompromising, unbending. It’s all anger and determination and absolute certainty.

“Oliver?” She asks, “what are you thinking?”

“I can’t keep you safe,” he repeats.

“Between you and John,” she says, “I’m fine. Besides, this isn’t a picture of me with the Hood. The criminal conspiracies of the world aren’t rubbing their hands together with glee. This is a picture of me with you. All this will get is the some airtime on E and maybe - maybe - a few oh so witty puns about gentlemen preferring blondes.”

Oliver looks away.

“I was freaked,” she says, “when I saw it the picture. I admit it. But I’m here with you now, and I know that everything is going to be fine.”

She pushes him backwards towards the black leather couch that sits in the corner of the office. He lets her, she which she takes as a good sign.

She’s never really been a fan of this room. It’s richly decorated, money and the ability to hire an interior designer clearly on show to any who enter. It doesn’t feel like him in the way the club basement does. Even his room at the manor, with the chips in the wood panels and clothes dumped on the floor - Oliver Queen was clearly never a child for whom tidy your room was a personal responsibility - feels more like him than this sterile space.

But it has a couch, so right now it’s her favourite place in the world.

She pushes him back until his legs hit the cushions.

“Sit down,” she says, “John said there was vodka. Where is it?”

“On the desk,” he says, but he sits.

She pours two glasses and crosses to sit beside him.

He immediately pulls her against him, twisting her body so she’s stretched sideways along the couch, her back against his chest. He wraps both arms around her and buries his face in her hair. His arms around her feel like walls against the world.

“Drink?”

He shakes his head, so she pours both measure into one glass and sips at it as she thinks.

"It's strange," he says, "I don't really remember a time when I wasn't being photographed. When I was a kid it was PR for the firm, then later it was something that just happened. All the time. Tommy and I used to give ourselves points. One for a posed shot, five if it was candid, ten if there was nudity. There were extra points for how many girls were involved or if there was a bottle of Jack. I think the best ever score was 57, but then Malcolm had to pay off the guy in question so it wouldn't get printed."

"This is normal for you," she says, trying to understand.

"No," he admits, "this was normal for me. Normal now is a bow and arrow."

"There's no such thing as normal," she says," not really."

"I never wanted to bring you into this world," he says, stroking her hair. "I wanted to keep you separate, keep you safe."

"I'm safe with you."

“No one’s safe with me.”

“Oliver -”

"These people," Oliver interrupts, "they dig into your life, they find things out. They’ll do anything to find a story."

"Are you worried about the Hood?"

"I'm worried about you."

"And I'm worried about you," she insists. "We can't hide out forever."

"No," he says, "but maybe just for today - tonight. We can hide for tonight. Here."

She looks up, casting her eyes around a room that is just another part of the masquerade he presents to the world.

"Here?" She asks, "hide here?"

"Why not?" He says, "there's food, drink, something soft to sleep on. It's more than I had for a long time."

"It's an office."

"No," he says, "it a closed door, and windows they can't see though. Stay here with me."

"There's no where else I'd rather be."

He smiles, and she tilts her head back to kiss him. It's an awkward arrangement, she's leaning back and twisting, he's leaning over her, but his lips are on hers and that's all she cares about right now.

He slips his hand into her hair and cradles her head as he kisses her.

She sighs as he moves his lips to her neck. He keeps one hand in her hair and drops the other down to slip inside her shirt, stroking the tops of her breasts.

She looks up at him, and he smirks.

"I haven't christened this couch," he grins.

"This is a very different you than an hour ago," she points out. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, but there's still a catch in his voice and if she can't help but worry.

"You're thinking too hard," he says, "here."

He offers her a hand to help her sit up, then lifts her so she straddles his lap.

He pulls the tie out of her hair so it falls loose around her shoulders, then he pushes the cardigan back off her arms.

"Oliver," she says, not complaining but certainly concerned.

He pulls her close in response, kissing her questions away.

This is not like their usual pace. There's no frantic or urgent need to touch. Instead he's moving slow and steady, touching her almost reverently.

He runs his hands through her hair, combing it out with his fingers. Then his hands drop to her back, undoing the zip of her dress. And all the time he doesn't stop kissing her.

"Oliver," she says, not wanting to stop but feeling she should protest, "someone could come in."

"No one's coming in," he says, pushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders so the material pools around her waist and loosely pins her arms to her sides.

He drops one hand to his belt, undoing it and his jeans. His other hand is on her face, holding her close for a kiss. Her hands lie against his chest, her fingers curl into the material of his shirt, keeping hold of him.

He runs his hands up her legs, lifting the skirt of her dress out of the way. His fingers play over the front of her underwear, rubbing softly with the same slow rhythm as everything else he's doing.

She's passive; every time she reaches for him he squeezes her hands and places them back on his chest, his shoulders. He seems to wants to set the pace, and she doesn't have a problem with that, there's some thing about this that seems almost sad. Lost. She doesn't want to ask him about it because she's not sure she wants to hear the answer.

Abruptly, he lifts her, pushes his jeans off his hips, then he pulls her down, slips the crotch of her underwear to one side and slides his cock inside her.

She catches her breath. She wasn't expecting him. It's not painful or uncomfortable but she's reminded that she was mentally a little unprepared, even if her body disagrees.

Their rhythm is slow. He's not thrusting so much as rocking into her, and her breathing becomes heavier as he urges her hips back and forth to match him.

She's still almost entirely dressed, siting here on this couch, riding him oh so slowly.

Oliver never stops kissing her. They move together for what seems like hours, a delightful slow burn. By the time Felicity feels her orgasm approaching she's damp with sweat across her entire body and her hips ache from the constant sedate pace.

"Oliver," she moans and he must read it in her face. He licks his thumb, then rubs at her clit, slowly, as everything has been between them today. Slow and steady.

Her breath starts to hitch, her body trembling and he watches her, silently, as he brings to the edge of her release and then over it.

She sags, utterly exhausted and he drops his head to her shoulder, groans and follows her into orgasm.

They sit, joined together for the longest time.

Then, without saying anything, he lifts her once more, sweeping her legs sideways into a bridal carry and sits her so she's curled up on his knee on the couch.

She feels like there are words that need to be said, things that must be done, but she's so so tired, so she just leans her head on his shoulder, relaxes into his arms, and lets unconsciousness take her away to oblivion. 


	5. The break-up

She wakes up alone on the couch, and instantly knows what is about to happen.

The bastard.

Felicity sets her jaw, makes sure that all of her clothing is in place, checks that her ponytail is exactly as neat as it should be, then storms downstairs, filled with the righteous wrath of someone who only just realised the great sex they just had was goodbye sex.

“Oliver Queen!” She yells as she walks down the stairs into the basement. “Are you in here?”

“Busted,” she hears John say. He appears from behind some shelves, sweaty and shirtless and holding escrima sticks. “Good thing you’re here. The tennis ball massacre is about to commence.” John keeps his tone light, but his eyes are concerned.

“Really,” she says in a purposely flat tone.

“For what it’s worth,” John says, dropping his voice low as she approaches, “I told him he was an idiot.”

“He is an idiot,” she says in a voice pitched to carry. “A gigantic idiot.”

“I’m to going to go and be elsewhere,” John says, heading for the stairs at a pace he probably thinks is casual.

She waits until she hears the upstairs door close behind him, then walks around to the archery range.

Oliver stands, shirtless, bow in hand. The only thing he’s wearing on his upper body is a quiver of arrows and the scars stand out against his skin like a roadmap of pain and suffering.

His expression is hard, his face closed.

All at once he triggers the switch on the catapult beside him. Four tennis balls fly into the air and - thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap - all four are pinned to the far wall by his weapon of choice.

He doesn’t look at her.

“So,” Felicity says, seating herself on a nearby table and swinging her legs like a kid, “You’re about to break up with me.”

“It’s for your own good,” he says, flatly.

“You do realise,” she says, “that I am perfectly capable of deciding what’s good for me.”

“Not on this,” he says.

“Really?” She says, letting her tone become incredulous. “What would make you think that?”

“If I stay in your life,” he says, filling the catapult bucket with a new batch of balls, “you will get hurt.”

“If you push me out of your life,” she says, evenly, “we’ll both be hurt.”

“But you won’t be dead.”

Thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap. Another four balls impaled.

“And if I’m not here,” she says, “making the big shiny computer boxes work, how long do you think you’ll last?”

“I did perfectly fine,” he says, “without you.”

“Oh,” she says, “so that’s why you were bleeding out in my rear seat. Because you were fine.”

He doesn’t look at her, but she can see a muscle dancing in his jaw.

“I’m not leaving,” she says. “You can choose not to spend time with me, but I won’t stop coming here. I won’t stop helping you.”

“I won’t let you in.”

“You won’t be able to stop me,” she says simply, “there’s isn’t an electronic lock invented that I can’t get through.”

“I’ll get a deadlock,” he says.

“I’ll learn how to pick it,” she grins, “there isn’t anything you can’t learn how to do on youtube.”

“It’s not that easy, Felicity,” he says, gritting his teeth.

“You learned it,” she points out, “how hard can it be?”

Oliver actually turns at that and glares at her. The look of annoyance on his face is so damn funny that she can’t help but laugh.

“This is funny,” he asks flatly, disbelieving.

“What’s funny,” Felicity says, “is you thinking that you get to tell me what to do.”

Oliver glares at her, then triggers the catapult again.

Thwap.

Thwap.

Thwap.

Thunk.

“You missed one,” Felicity says, genuinely shocked. “I didn’t think you ever missed.”

“I miss,” he says. “Everyone misses.”

“Yeah,” she says, still staring at the one arrow unencumbered by an impaled ball. “But still…”

“I can’t protect you,” he says, looking down at the bow in his hands. “I can’t be there every single second. Something could happen. Someone could hurt you.”

“No one is going to hurt me.”

“You don’t know that. You’ve been in my life for six months and you’ve almost died three times. What will happen when I’ve known you for a year? Or two? Or ten? I don’t hit every target,” he admits, looking up at her with intense eyes, “sooner or later, I miss. And someone will get through, and they’ll hurt you.”

“Or hurt you,” she points out, “if I’m not here to protect you, someone will hurt you. You think I could live with that?”

“I need you to live,” he says.

“Oliver,” she says softly, “there’s more to living than life.”

He sets his jaw and doesn’t look at her.

After a second she slips down off of the table and moves towards him. She moves slowly, something in her telling her that if she goes fast he’ll spook like a nervous horse.

“Oliver,” she tries again, “I know you spent all those years just trying to survive. But you survived. Now you get to live. And if you don’t want to live with me, I understand that. But I’m not letting you walk away out of fear. You’re better than that. You’re braver than that.”

She steps in close and lays a hand on his chest.

“Have faith in me,” she says, “have faith in us.”

His eyes flick up to hers.

“I can’t lose you,” he says, in a low dangerous tone.

“You won’t,” she says.

She desperately wants to kiss him, claim him, put this argument behind them in the past. But she’s already pushed him about as far as she can right now. He has to make the choice. He has to put his fears aside.

Or they’ll just end up having the same argument tomorrow.

And the day after.

She wants to say that she’ll keep having that argument until he makes the choice to keep her. But the argument itself could destroy them. There’s only so many times he can push her away before there will be nothing left for her to stay for.

Her hand rests lightly on his chest. His skin under her fingertips is hot with sweat.

She’s never really had a thing for sweat before, but like everything about Oliver, he’s the exception to all of her previously established rules.

“I don’t want people to know about you,” he says, “I want to keep you safe. I don’t you to be a target.”

“I don’t want to be a target either,” Felicity admits.

“So you agree,” he says.

“No,” Felicity replies, “No, no, no.” She taps his chest with every word. “Nope.”

“Felicity,” he says exasperated.

“Look,” she says, “the pictures are already out there, there’s nothing we can do about that.”

Oliver growls, but otherwise stays silent.

“And anything we might do,” she says pointedly, “and by we here, I mean you, would only serve to draw attention to it.”

“So there’s nothing we can do.”

“Not quite,” she says, and can’t quite clamp down on the wince she feels at her own thoughts. “Because where do you hide a needle?”

“What?”

“Where do you hide a needle?” She says pointedly, “where do you hide water?”

He rolls his eyes at her.

“You hide needles in a haystack,” she says, “you hide water at sea.”

“Is that hiding,” he says, “or losing?”

“You can’t lose something if you know where it is,” she says.

“Felicity,” he says, furrowing his brow, “this metaphor has gotten a bit too complex for me. I really don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I have an idea,” she says, “and I don’t particularly like it, but it could work.”

“Am I going to like it?” He asks.

“Probably more than me,” she admits. She takes a deep breath.

Then she tells him.

She knows they’re going to be okay when he can’t help but laugh.


End file.
